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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30004614">Letters From Me to You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyja_luna/pseuds/freyja_luna'>freyja_luna</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Padfoot and Prongs: An Anthology [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Best Friends, Friendship, Gen, Male Friendship, Marauders, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter), POV Sirius Black, Prompt Fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 20:20:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,672</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30004614</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyja_luna/pseuds/freyja_luna</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1981, Sirius has been receiving anonymous letters chronicling some of the many adventures, mischief, and pranks that he got up to with the Marauders at Hogwarts. He's fairly certain which Marauder has been sending them, but he wants a proper confession.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sirius Black &amp; James Potter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Padfoot and Prongs: An Anthology [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2190093</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Letters From Me to You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote this for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition on ff.net:<br/>Round 1: The end<br/>Position: Chaser 1<br/>Team: Ballycastle Bats<br/>Prompt: Your character discovers who has been sending them anonymous letters<br/>Optional prompts used:<br/>3. (word) treasure<br/>12. (emotion) nostalgia<br/>14. (colour) orange</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The letters had been subtle at first, simple hints of shared experiences accompanied by encouraging words. I hadn’t known what to make of them for the first month, and so I’d let them keep coming to my doorstep without making an effort to investigate who was sending them. If they’d been sinister, perhaps I would’ve, but these were not those sorts of letters. </p><p>As May had dragged into June, I’d come to anticipate the next one, to yearn for the newest. The more fond I’d grown of receiving the letters, the more the writer had given me clues as to their identity, as if they were intending for me to twig who it was in the end. By the last week of June, I was certain about two things: who was writing the anonymous letters; and that they’d wanted me to guess their identity all along. However, I wasn’t yet sure and I had no solid proof. What I sought as I left my flat that sunny afternoon in July was a confession from the author. </p><p>I clutched the stack of letters as I disapparated, and then harder as I apparated with a small pop. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know I was coming; I’d owled him this morning. The letter at the top of the stack bore an orange tea stain, but it wasn’t because I’d not treasured them. No, it was because as I’d read that particular letter, I’d started laughing so hard that the cup of tea in my hand had spilled some of its liquid over the rim. All of the letters bore the same signs of being well-loved and well-read: creases, tears, edges worn soft. </p><p>He opened the door after I knocked, his face breaking into a brilliant grin. “Padfoot!”</p><p>“Prongs,” I said with an equally wide grin. </p><p>“How’ve you been, mate?” he said, clobbering me with an enthusiastic hug. </p><p>I ruffled the top of his head. “Not too shabby. How’re things here?”</p><p>“Same as always.” </p><p>I couldn’t ignore how changed he sounded as he invited me inside and shut the door. He also wasn’t blind— especially not when he was wearing his glasses— and he must’ve noticed the conspicuous sheaf of parchment in my hand. But he made no mention of it as I followed him into the kitchen. </p><p>“How’re they doing, Lily and Harry?” I saw their miserable housecat slink by and added, “And the cat?”</p><p>James laughed as he hunted for his crystal tumblers. “You’re asking about the cat? Come off it, I know you hate it.”</p><p>Laughing, I leaned against the counter. “I swear to Merlin, it knows what I am.”</p><p>“No need to stare at it like it’s a dragon. It’s not even a kneazle.”</p><p>“I’m just staring back. Have you seen how it looks at me?”</p><p>James burst out laughing, standing at the side of the kitchen island as he poured two tumblers of firewhiskey. He slid mine over and we leaned in to toast before sipping at the amber-coloured drinks. Not knowing how to bring up the subject for which I’d come, I laid the letters on the stone counter. </p><p>He smiled ruefully, but met my eyes unabashedly. “I wanted you to eventually find out.”</p><p>“I know.” </p><p>He hesitated and looked at the oranges in the fruit bowl, then ruffled his hair. “What’d you think?”</p><p>“Prongs, honestly.” His eyes went wide and so I quickly said, “I loved them. I really did.”</p><p>“I thought you would, but I couldn’t be sure. I was afraid you might get irritated by the anonymity?”</p><p>I fingered a loose thread from an orange baby sock on the counter. “It was a nice little surprise. I grew quite fond of receiving them, actually. I lost count of how many times I reread them. I reckon I know them by heart.”</p><p>James took a sip from his tumbler before replying. “Do you have a favourite?”</p><p>I rifled through the stack before grabbing a dog-eared one. “It has to be this one. Do you know how hard I laughed when I read it? I’d forgotten we’d set the Cornish pixies on the Slytherins that year. I was missing—” I faltered. </p><p>“You were missing the pranks?” </p><p>“I was— I am— missing everything. The pranks, the mischief, the adventure…”</p><p>James sighed and took another sip. “I miss the full moons. Doesn’t feel the same, not running around with Moony once a month, yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah. I reckon I didn’t treasure those moments enough, thinking it’d always be like that.” Looking up, I saw the same nostalgia in his expression. “You know?” I drank some of the firewhiskey, needing its orange warmth inside my chest instead of this cold longing. </p><p>“I miss it all, Padfoot. I miss the simpler times, the happiness. Part of me wonders, if I’d known I’d go into hiding, would I have seen how precious those years were?”</p><p>I said nothing and swirled the drink in my glass. The war had been— and was hard— on everyone; James had wanted to cheer me up, to lift my spirits, in any way that he could while he was so isolated and while Order business had me running around most days and nights. In writing the letters, he had unknowingly given me something that was— to me— the most treasured of all: a tangible anthology of our friendship and what we’d been through. </p><p>I looked up to meet his eyes. “You mean a lot to me. Did you know that?”</p><p>James smiled. “Of course I do. You mean the same to me, Padfoot. You always have been my best mate.”</p><p>“Even when I was a git to Moony and played that prank on Snape with the Whomping Willow?” Part of me did fear his answer. </p><p>He squeezed my shoulder. “Even then. I forgave you, didn’t I? Or should I’ve written a letter about that?”</p><p>“Only include our finest moments in writing, Prongs.”</p><p>“In that case, I’ll be writing you letters long after I’m in my grave, yeah?”</p><p>We spent that afternoon talking, basking in each other’s presence as we sat outside in the heat. James took great joy in making me howl with laughter as he dramatically reread his own writing in between sips of firewhiskey. I was disappointed in myself for forgetting such chronicled moments; James sending me letters had been like unearthing buried treasure which I’d somehow let gather dust and dirt. </p><p>Time was lost to us outside, and the glint of the sunset on the windows went unnoticed. The sky was the colour of ripe peach flesh, while the warmth of the summer day was the velvety fruit skin. I handled the letters like they were precious stones, we both did. Without speaking, we knew that they were a cherished treasure chest of memories. They captured the years of friendship that always lay between and shone around us like a sunny halo. To outsiders, the significance of the letters would be lost, and this was what made them so special; this happy phenomenon was unexplainable to anyone but us. The last apricot-coloured beams bathed us in a balmy glow, or perhaps that was the effect of merely being with my best friend, who never failed to understand me.</p><p>  I looked at the marigolds which Lily had planted as I rose from my seat, the tumblers long since emptied. I gathered the stack of letters and held them up. “Thank you, Prongs. And I’m not taking the piss, I really do cherish these.” </p><p>“I know you do, Padfoot.”</p><p>“I know you wrote them to cheer me up.”</p><p>“I did, I can’t deny that.”</p><p>I looked him in the eye. “You know how much I’ve been running around with the Order. The letters became the highlight of my day. The mystery of it… it gave me something to look forward to.”</p><p>“Brilliant! I was hoping they’d have that effect.”</p><p>I smiled, thinking about how James was the much more sentimental one of us. If I’d been sentimental, surely I would’ve hesitated to run away from home when I was sixteen? However, I wasn’t exempt from the nostalgic feelings I had for the letters. How could I feel any differently? Hogwarts was my home, the Marauders were my family, and I saw none of the former and little of the latter nowadays. In the act of reading, of remembering, I’d had a sort of homecoming, and a core element of nostalgia was the sense of returning home. </p><p>I hugged James hard. “I’ve missed this, Prongs.”</p><p>“I can tell! You’re not usually this touchy-feely,” he teased, but returned the embrace nonetheless. </p><p>“What’d you expect, you idiot?” I laughed and ruffled his hair. “You reminded me of the good old days and I miss them.”</p><p>James followed me to the front door, the house cool under the cover of nightfall. He laughed when I made a rude gesture at their housecat. “You’re invited to Harry’s first birthday. It’ll be just us here, but I know you’d want the invitation.”</p><p>“What? Me? Showing up to my godson’s first birthday party? No!” </p><p>He laughed with me and clapped me on the back. “Take care of yourself, Padfoot. Don’t get up to any mischief without me.”</p><p>Halfway down the front steps, I turned back. With a wily grin, I said, “You too, Prongs. Give my best to Lily. And I’m not getting rid of these, whether you like it or not.” I held up the stack of letters in explanation. “Especially if I can embarrass you by reading them to Harry when he’s old enough to hear about our antics.”</p><p>Laughing, James pushed up his glasses and leaned against the doorframe. “I’m counting on it.”</p><p>With a last backwards glance and a wave, I disapparated with a pop. I was going home to my flat alone, but now I had a piece of James with me in the form of the letters. Though it was night as I opened the door of my flat, surely the sun would never set on our friendship. </p>
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